IN THE DARK

by Pamela Burford

  "Well, I must say, I'm impressed."

  Brody sat on the edge of his desk and beamed with pride. "Bet you never thought you'd see the day."

  "Do you think it'll last?" she asked.

  He glanced around his newly streamlined work space, clearly giving her question some thought. "Yes." He looked at her, his expression at once candid and resolute. "You've never seen me when my mind's made up about something, Cat."

  He was drawing a line in the sand. In that instant she knew that her earlier suspicions had been on target. All these positive changes had something to do with her. She wanted to shake him, knock some sense into him.

  Don't do this for me, she wanted to tell him. In five days I'll be out of your life.

  * * *

  Chapter 12

  « ^ »

  Cat unrolled one of the warm washcloths the waiter had brought and scrubbed barbecue sauce off her fingers. "If Nana knew we were on kind of a date during work hours, she'd have a conniption. Remember her warnings about 'excessive familiarity'?"

  Brody tucked his credit card back into his wallet and pocketed it. "Honey, maybe you weren't paying attention, but we passed the point of excessive familiarity a couple of months ago. And this isn't 'kind of a date,' it's a date."

  He rose and ushered her through the popular restaurant, which was packed even on this Wednesday night, thanks to its peerless smoked ribs and golden hush puppies with maple butter. They emerged on Forty-fourth Street

  , a half block from Broadway, where they'd attended a matinee performance of Les Miserables.

  Cat had come into Manhattan by train that morning. Brody had driven in and met her at Grand Central Station. They'd taken in the latest exhibit at the Guggenheim and strolled through Central Park while lunching on hot dogs and soft pretzels from vendor carts.

  It was now nearly 9:30 p.m. and the sky had gone fully dark while they'd been inside the restaurant. Down the street, the lights of Broadway beckoned. Brody asked, "How about we go somewhere quiet for a drink?" Then he remembered. "A couple of virgin daiquiris? Or maybe some decaf cappuccino?"

  "It's been a long day. I've enjoyed it, but I'm pooped."

  Brody faced her fully, his hands on her shoulders. "Are you feeling all right? We overdid it, didn't we? Are those ribs sitting okay?"

  "I'm fine. Really. Just a little tired. I think I should head home."

  "You know, the Marriott's right around the corner." And his neighbor George was taking care of Spot, so Brody could stay out all night. "Hey, don't look at me like that. I'm only trying to spare you the long ride to Tarrytown."

  It was almost true. They hadn't made love since that time last Thursday when he'd jumped her in the bathroom. He wanted her so badly it hurt, but he drew the line at pressuring an exhausted pregnant woman for sex.

  Cat studied his expression as if gauging his sincerity. Some of it must have come through, because she squeezed his arm and offered an apologetic smile. "Thanks, but I'd rather be in my own bed."

  "Let's go then." He put his arm around her and steered her away from Broadway toward the parking spot he'd miraculously found three blocks away.

  "Brody, you don't have to drive me. I can take the train."

  "Right. I might let you take public transportation all the way to Westchester at night when you're carrying—" My baby. He almost said it. "I'm driving you, Cat. This is nonnegotiable."

  The fierce protectiveness Brody felt was as novel as it was alarming. Did all expectant fathers feel this way?

  He knew she didn't think of him as an expectant father, not in the full sense. What would she say, he wondered, if he told her he'd found out the baby was his? What would she do? More than likely she'd become defensive and shut him out for good. The last thing he wanted was to scare her off.

  Brody was hoping to avoid that kind of confrontation. He was hoping she'd come clean on her own, trust him enough to reveal the truth. But they had only two more days together. If it didn't happen within the next two days, he'd have to take drastic action.

  This was his baby, damn it, and this was his woman, too, whether she knew it or not! Letting her walk out of his life was not an option.

  He knew she thought he was trying to prove something to her with his flurry of self-improvement. She was only half-right. He was trying to prove something to both of them. He still didn't know if he had what it took to be a decent dad, but at this point he knew he had to try. If he let Cat and their child slip away without a fight, he'd never forgive himself.

  When they reached his Boxster convertible, Brody lowered the top, taking advantage of the clear and balmy early September night. Cat directed him to take the Henry Hudson Parkway north

  to the bridge of the same name. "In the Bronx it becomes the Saw Mill River Parkway

  . I'll tell you when to cut west to Tarrytown."

  "That's a heck of a drive every day out to Long Island. How come you always refuse to stay over?" he asked, weaving around midtown traffic as he headed toward the Upper West Side. "It would make it so much easier on you."

  "I believe your guest bed has been carted away."

  "Only four days ago." He sent her a sardonic look. "And after last Thursday, don't talk to me about separate bedrooms."

  "I never stayed because I was afraid we'd do exactly what we did last Thursday."

  Brody considered her newfound candor a good omen. He decided to see how far he could push it. "I understand," he said. "You didn't want to be unfaithful to Greg."

  She stared straight ahead. Brody waited. His fingers tightened around the steering wheel.

  Finally she said, "That's not a problem anymore."

  "Why not?"

  "We … broke up. Greg and me."

  A satisfied smile tugged at Brody's mouth. The fictional boyfriend had obviously been a shield to keep him at a distance. Cat wasn't exactly coming clean, but this was a step in the right direction.

  "Mind if I ask why?" he said.

  She pushed her windblown hair behind her ears. "I guess we just … didn't hit it off as well as we'd thought we would."

  "And the baby?"

  Say it, he silently pleaded. Trust me. I won't let you down. He wished he could believe that last part. And if he couldn't believe it, how could he expect her to?

  Cat kept her gaze glued to the windshield. "Nothing's changed as far as the baby's concerned. I'm going to raise her myself, like I said."

  Brody switched lanes abruptly, and had to stop short to avoid a fender bender. His arm shot out in front of Cat. He asked, "You okay?" She nodded.

  They lapsed into silence. The car merged with parkway traffic and they sped north along the west side of Manhattan.

  At last Brody said, "Her?"

  "What?"

  "You said you'd raise 'her' yourself."

  Cat's voice held a smile. "I keep thinking of the baby as a girl."

  A girl. A little girl clambering onto her daddy's lap. Gazing at him with adoring eyes. "What color are her eyes?"

  She chuckled self-consciously. "Blue."

  "I don't know. If I recall the genetics section of Bio 101, blue eyes are recessive. If one parent has brown eyes, the baby most likely will, too. What color are Greg's eyes?" Brown.

  "Uh…"

  "Don't you know?" They'd met once, Bannister had said, twenty years ago.

  "Of course I know. They're blue. Dark blue."

  "Oh, that's right. You said I look a lot like him. Startling resemblance, I think you said. Which was why you mistook me for—"

  "I remember," she snapped.

  "So your little girl might very well come out looking like me." Brody sensed Cat's sudden tension. "I bet it'll almost look like I'm her dad." I can't make it any easier for you, he thought. Say it. But she remained silent.

  "Speaking of kids," he said at last, as he shifted lanes to pass a sluggish Buick. "Maybe it's you being pregnant and all that got me thinking about it. I know I came across as … well, I know how I came across, but that's not t
otally accurate. Not by a long shot."

  "What are you talking about?"

  Brody gripped the wheel with sweat-slick fingers. "Kids. I mean, I know what I said, all right? But I've been thinking. I'm not against having them."

  "Well, that's a relief for those of us who are having them."

  "No, I mean … what I mean is, I'm not against me having them. Not that it would be, you know, me actually having them, but a, you know…"

  "A woman."

  "My woman. Having them for me. With me." He broke off with a muttered oath. His chest had become a pinball machine. He hadn't had a drink or a smoke in six days, and he sure as hell could've used both right then.

  She said, "Wasn't it less than a week ago that you were saying—"

  "I changed my mind, okay?"

  Brody could almost hear her thinking lost cause. He glanced at Cat. She was looking at him now, listening attentively. He forced himself to take a deep breath, forced his hands to relax on the wheel.

  "I have a few hang-ups about this stuff," he said, and did a mental double take, realizing he'd summed it up in a nutshell. "I never thought of it that way before. I guess it's easier to point out my office mom's insecurities than to recognize my own." He sent Cat a lopsided smile.

  She said, "If I'm insecure about marriage and the whole nuclear-family thing, I have good reason to be."

  "I never said you didn't. It's human nature to learn from negative experiences, so you can avoid them in the future. All I'm saying is we don't have to let our caution overwhelm our judgment. And I think both of us have been guilty of that."

  "I didn't make my decision lightly, Brody—to raise my child alone."

  "I know you didn't, honey. I know you want what's best for your baby. And you'll make a terrific mother no matter what." He steeled himself. "But what if the father of your child wanted to be involved? What would you do then?"

  Cat was silent as they left upper Manhattan and entered the Bronx, crossing the bridge where the Harlem River meets the Hudson. Finally she said, "It doesn't bear discussion. He's out of the picture."

  Was Cat talking about Brody or Greg? The urge to set her straight was overpowering. The father of her child was most definitely not out of the picture. With every day that passed, Brody's determination ratcheted up another notch.

  He asked, "And if he offered to marry you?"

  "I think … I think I'd have to say no. He's not the kind of man I'd consider marrying, or raising a family with."

  Now Brody knew she was talking about him. Cleaning up his act hadn't made much of an impact, apparently. He wished he knew what else he could do. "Sometimes we have to take what life hands us, Cat. It's not always what we had in mind, but it usually has a way of working out."

  "Still trying to throw me at Greg?"

  Brody ground his teeth to keep from blurting out something he'd regret. When he didn't answer she said, "So. You've decided you want kids, after all?"

  "No. What I've decided is I'm not going to let a couple of pathetic screwups make the decision for me."

  "Which pathetic screwups might these be?"

  "My worthless drunk of a mother and the careless son of a bitch who planted me in her belly." Cat flinched, but he plowed ahead. "I've decided not to follow your gutless example, Cat. If I choose not to have children, it won't be because those two losers made a mess of it."

  Her voice shook. "You have no right to call me gutless. I want a baby—this baby—more than anything. I haven't let my parents' mistakes scare me away from motherhood."

  "No, you've let them scare you away from marriage. Raising children is a matter of teamwork. It should be, anyway."

  "I have nothing against marriage. I just haven't found the right man."

  "How long have you been looking?"

  "Twenty years."

  "You're telling me that in two decades of diligent man-hunting, you haven't found one guy worth settling down with?" he asked, parroting Greg Bannister's words.

  "I have standards. What's wrong with that?"

  "You tell me. Are these standards attainable by a mortal male in one lifetime?"

  She responded with a disgusted growl. "You sound like Brigit."

  "I'm liking this Brigit more and more."

  Brody didn't pursue the subject. He'd given Cat something to think about, and that was enough for now.

  After a long silence she startled him by asking, "Do you really consider yourself responsible for Serena Milton's suicide?"

  "Where did that come from?"

  "You don't have to answer if you don't want to."

  "I don't mind," he said, and found to his surprise that it was true. Which didn't make it any easier to put his feelings into words. He kept his eyes on the road. "I've asked myself that question a hundred times, Cat. I've examined that whole horrible mess from every conceivable angle." He took a deep breath. "I dream about it." He'd never told that to anyone.

  Just when he'd decided she wasn't going to respond, she said, "You once told me that driving Serena to suicide was your finest career move."

  He grimaced at the memory.

  She said, "After I got to know you a little better, I figured out what made you say that."

  "Care to enlighten me?"

  "It was a smoke screen. It was easier letting me think the worst of you than admitting that you're carrying around all this guilt."

  "Maybe I was just trying to get a rise out of you." He glanced at her. "As I recall, it worked."

  "I bought in to your bluster back then. I didn't know you very well. I wouldn't fall for the same nonsense now."

  "I stand forewarned."

  "It wasn't your fault, you know."

  "Look," he said, "I know you mean well, but—"

  "She'd been on the brink for years, Brody. Didn't one of her ex-husbands say she'd tried it before?"

  "That was a cry for help. It wasn't a genuine suicide attempt."

  "If you say so, Dr. Mikhailov. Though if you ask me, washing down a few dozen pills with a quart of Southern Comfort sounds more like a bungled job than a cry for help. All I know is the woman had been certifiable for as long as anyone could remember. She'd made a wreck of her life and told anyone who would listen that she intended to end it all—before your stupid book hit the shelves. So I don't want to hear about your stupid guilt!"

  Brody couldn't decide whether to laugh or kiss her. Just when he'd concluded that the mother of his unborn child had absolutely no faith in him, she had to go and throw him this curve ball.

  Grinning, he said, "So what you're saying is I don't need to worry that my stupid books might actually influence a reader in any meaningful way. It's not as if they're real books."

  "Mind candy. Don't give it another thought."

  The rest of the drive went quickly as they made their way through the Bronx and Westchester. Cat directed Brody to a well-kept two-family house on a quiet block in Tarrytown.

  "My apartment is upstairs," she said.

  The upper floor was dark, and Brody thought how lonely Cat must be living here. Of course, he had an entire house to himself, bigger than this one, but he was a solitary type. Cat was a people person; she thrived on human companionship.

  "Thanks so much for the ride, Brody. And the whole day. It was … it was very special." She kissed him on the cheek, as if this were their first date.

  This was their first date, he realized with a start.

  When she began to pull away, Brody gently drew her back. He kissed her, a real kiss, tender and deep. He put everything into this kiss that he couldn't put into words, all his heartache and yearning, his awe for the miracle of new life that both bound them and tore them apart.

  When at last they separated, Cat was trembling. Brody's raw, unspoken feelings threatened to choke him.

  She pulled away and reached for the door handle. Her voice wobbled. "My landlady's probably watching."

  He took a deep breath, let it out. "Should've left the top up." She started to open the d
oor and he stopped her. "Let me stay with you tonight."

  Her sad gaze caressed him. "You can't. My landlady, Mrs. Santangelo…"

  "To hell with Mrs. Santangelo. I want to sleep next to you, Cat." He captured her hand. "I want to wake up next to you." Tomorrow morning and every morning. "We don't have to do anything. I know you're tired."

  The nearest street lamp was some distance away; shadows shrouded her face, but they couldn't conceal the chaos of emotions assailing her.

  "Cat…"

  "No, Brody. I'm sorry. I wish … I wish things were different."

  She wished he were different. She withdrew her hand from his and let herself out of the car.

  He walked her to the front door. He touched her cheek, a feather stroke, but didn't kiss her again. They said good-night and she disappeared into the house.

  Brody sat in his car and watched until a light went on upstairs. Her shadow passed the closed curtain. He turned the key in the ignition and pulled away from the curb.

  * * *

  Chapter 13

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  A beer stein of buttermilk, enough to make a thick batter

  Cat squinted at the barely legible pencil scratchings scrawled on the back of a receipt for an oil change, and continued to type the ingredients list for "Harry's Kick-Ass Cornbread."

  A handful of dried onion flakes

  Whose handful? she wondered. One of this Harry's probably equaled two of hers.

  Optional ingredients: chopped jalapeño peppers, corn scraped off the cob, shredded jack or cheddar cheese, cooked bacon bits…

  She glanced across the computer room to where Brody sat at his worktable, poring over his notes for the book on comic actors. He was facing her, but his attention was on the papers spread out before him.

  As always when he worked, he wore his gold-rimmed reading glasses, a concession to his forty-year-old eyes. Surprisingly, she found the glasses actually enhanced his physical appeal. Perhaps it was the air of scholarliness they imparted, or even the hit of vulnerability, so at odds with his robust masculinity. The contrast had been even more marked before last Friday, when he'd sported perpetual razor stubble. The effect wasn't the same now that he was clean-shaven.